[New Location Unlocked: Council Chamber] (Pyke) — 10 EXP gained.
Pirate King System activated.
Exploration complete. Rewards and stats updated.
____
Euron's secret weapon worked in silence. Every step added points, and the world unfolded like a living map. Explored areas were clear; the rest hid beneath dark fog.
The Council Chamber appeared first: stone walls slick with spray, frayed kraken banners, Quellon Greyjoy's Sea Stone Seat, corners stacked with plunder.
Beyond it, Pyke's shipyards, salt pans, iron mines, armories, and training grounds waited—each holding more points, each promising more power.
Euron knew one truth: Points were strength. Strength was survival.
...
Euron was not late.
Before dawn light had finished clawing its way through the fog that clung to Pyke's jagged cliffs, he was already dressed by the calm, practiced hands of his handmaiden, Lysa. His new dark green velvet robe bore the gold-threaded kraken of House Greyjoy, its curling arms catching the dim firelight as though alive.
Euron sat straight-backed at the end of the long table, just beside the high seat reserved for Lord Quellon Greyjoy, his father. He imitated Quellon's stern poise, though his feet barely touched the floor.
Maester Tymor, thin and pale as driftwood, hovered to his left. His fingers nervously worried at his chain links. Lysa stood deeper in the shadows on Euron's right—silent, still.
He had arrived too early.
His father had not yet come. The only sounds were the crackling of fresh logs in the hearth and the soft keening of wind forcing itself through the chamber's narrow window slits.
Then the silence broke.
One by one, the great oaken doors pushed open, letting in the scents and temper of the islands—salt, iron, cold, and pride.
Hrothgar Drumm, Lord of Old Wyk, strode in first, heavy boots thundering on the stone like a forge hammer.
Garrik Botley, Lord of Salt Cliff, followed, eyes cold and sharp as a moray eel.
Korren Blacktyde, grim and devout, entered last, passing his fingers over a polished wooden carving of the Drowned God.
Retainers, sworn men, and speakers trailed behind them, filling the chamber with a tense, briny weight.
Then came the glances.
Startled. Disdainful. Curious. Hostile.
Like tentacles of cold water, they wrapped around the small boy seated in an adult's place, wearing the kraken embroidered in gold.
Hrothgar Drumm snorted—loud, derisive. He seized a cup, gulped a mouthful of poor ale, and let his voice grind across the hall like a rusted anchor dragged across stone.
"Look at that! A boy barely weaned, sitting here? Does the boy think this is some play table for building sandcastles? Has House Greyjoy sunk so low?"
A deliberate provocation. Loud, intentional.
Garrik Botley gave a thin, cutting laugh.
"Not so fast, Lord Drumm. Let the boy speak. We'll all get a good look at what wind blows through the mind of Lord Quellon's son. If he spouts nonsense in this chamber… well."
He let the rest hang, sharp and threatening as a hooked spear.
Korren Blacktyde did not jeer. Instead, he placed his wooden idol upon the table, bowed his head, and whispered a solemn prayer.
The murmurs, mockery, and pious foreboding rolled over Euron like freezing waves. He could feel Maester Tymor's nerves radiating behind him… and Lysa's calm, steady presence at his side.
Is it truly so shocking for me to sit here?
His mind sharpened.
He recalled the history of Westeros—centuries of it.
Children had ruled, some by fate, some by blood.
Even the smallest heirs had once stood at the heart of power.
Some—like Euron—placed there with purpose.
The retorts surged to his tongue, sharp and ready. But he forced them back. Fingernails dug into his palms beneath the sleeves of his robe. Pain kept him anchored.
He steadied his breathing. Straightened his posture. Kept his mismatched gaze lowered. Let the storm wash over him.
He would not rise to their bait.
Not today.